by Jilly Cooper
He was increasingly uneasy about the undeniable chemistry between her and Rannaldini. Like one of Dracula’s bats, he could see the shadow of the television microphone on her freckled breast bone. Nor was Viking happy. The last thing he wanted either was for Rannaldini to get off with Flora again. He was extremely curious to see the man for whom Abby had cut her wrist, but noticed in extreme indignation that the seat beside Miles was still empty. Christopher Shepherd hadn’t even bothered to show. Bloody hell! So Abby needn’t have pushed off, after all, and Rannaldini needn’t have taken over and Viking had to admit that the bastard gave off such electricity that the orchestra were playing out of their boots and Abby couldn’t fail to show up unfavourably by comparison. He also had to confess that without Abby’s histrionics the RSO seemed very dull.
God was now creating Eve.
‘Adam’s lovely gracious wife in happy innocence she smiles,’ sang Alphonso.
Such was his swelling emotion that his waistcoat button gave up the unequal struggle and flew through the air nearly blacking Goaty Gilbert’s eye. Flora fought the giggles and only sobered up when she caught a glimpse of Helen looking blasted with misery in the fourth row.
The orchestra had played miraculously for nearly two hours, the strings’ bow-ties were under their ears. But at last they reached the final chorus with soloists.
‘To the glory of God, let song with song compete,’ sang Flora joyfully, ‘The glory of the Lord shall last forever, Amen.’
There was total silence, a dog barked, a car backfired, followed by hysterical screaming applause. The orchestra were all cheering for Flora.
‘Well done, darling,’ she could hear Viking yelling.
At first, very shy, not knowing how to accept such applause, she gradually began to smile and even blow kisses to the rapturous stamping, clapping, shouting throng.
And how could she not, with Rannaldini beside her lifting her hand to his lips, covering it with kisses, pouring sweet everythings into her ear.
‘My little star, my angel child, I knew you could do it. I distance myself, I know suffering produce great art.’
Flora had wanted to make him crawl, but she couldn’t help herself.
‘I love you,’ she whispered, clutching a huge bunch of copper roses to her breast.
Helen was distraught. That bloody girl, she’d always been after Rannaldini.
George who had read Paradise Lost at school suddenly remembered Satan like a toad squatting beside Eve, whispering words of temptation into her ear. He’d got to rescue Flora, he was convinced now that something had gone on between her and Rannaldini. But when he fought his way to her dressing-room, she had already been spirited away by Miles and Lord Leatherhead to the big celebration dinner for sponsors, soloists and the management at the Rutminster Royale who were giving the RSO a discount. He wasn’t even cheered that he’d saved forty thousand pounds on Hermione’s fee.
Christopher Shepherd, who’d been delayed at the Barbican signing up a very pretty thirteen-year-old Chinese cellist, was not pleased to find a strange redhead singing the final chorus in Hermione’s place, and Shepherd Denston ten thousand pounds the lighter. He proceeded to jackboot about.
‘Where’s Dame Hermione?’
‘Never showed up,’ said George.
‘Dame Hermione has never been late in her life,’ thundered Christopher, quite untruthfully. ‘What in hell’s happened to her? She may have been kidnapped, right? Why didn’t you provide a body guard. Shepherd Denston will expect full compensation.’
Arriving at the Royale, however, Christopher and the other guests were relieved but somewhat startled to see Dame Hermione swinging like Guy the Gorilla from a rope of knotted sheets and duvet covers trying to find a foothold on the floodlit balcony of the Bridal Suite.
Unwilling to admit she’d been tied up and left by Viking and Blue, she had to fabricate a tale about being so upset about the ‘pausa’ row that she had locked herself into the wrong room without a telephone.
‘I couldn’t make anyone hear,’ she sobbed into Christopher’s manly chest.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll sue the hotel, and Rannaldini and the orchestra,’ Christopher glared at George, ‘for booking you into such a crumby joint.’
‘Bollocks,’ exploded George. ‘There’s absolutely no way we’re responsible. Every attempt was made to trace Dame Hermione.’
What a pompous prat, he decided.
Although Dame Hermione was hastily reassured by Christopher that she was insured against accident, her squawks increased when she discovered that Flora had stood in for her so triumphantly and, even more so, when she learnt Rannaldini and the little tramp had vanished.
Even more upset than either Hermione, Helen or Christopher, who was furious not to be able to sign Flora up, or Alphonso, who wanted to jump on her, or Walter, who wanted Marcus’s telephone number, was George. Totally abandoning his duties as host to an ever-willing Miles, in increasing despair he commuted between Rannaldini’s house in Paradise and Woodbine Cottage but both remained in darkness.
On a third visit to the cottage, which Flora in her haste had left unlocked, George collected a hysterical Trevor and took him back home.
At two o’clock the storm broke, the first clap of thunder sending the little dog shuddering into George’s arms.
George was still drinking whisky, stubbing out the umpteenth cigarette, listening to the thunder grumbling in the distance as though it had been evicted from the pub, when the doorbell jangled frantically and Flora staggered in.
There was an ugly bruise on her cheek. She was soaked to the skin. Abby’s shirt, ripped down the front, was almost transparent. She was clutching Foxie and shaking convulsively.
‘I can’t go back to the cottage in case Rannaldini follows me. Oh thank God, you’ve got Trev. You are kind.’ She gathered up the screaming excited little dog, whose scrabbling claws ripped Abby’s shirt even further. ‘Oh Angel, how could I have left you in this storm. Rannaldini has this horrible effect on me.’ Then she glanced up at George. ‘Please please don’t be cross with me. Can I have a bath?’
She must have slept with Rannaldini, thought George. The pain was horrifying, but he said of course, and poured her a large brandy.
When she came down wrapped in his huge green-and-blue striped dressing-gown, he gave her another brandy and put her in a leather armchair and turned on the gas logs.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, ‘I can’t talk about it,’ and then proceeded to do so for nearly two hours without stopping, telling him how Rannaldini had destroyed her.
‘He pursued me and pursued me and when I was sixteen, I didn’t fancy him at all, I was much keener on his son Wolfie, but finally I gave in and got totally hooked. Then he binned me like a mail-order shot because I said Boris was a brilliant conductor, and he promptly seduced Boris’s wife Rachel to punish Boris and me.’
‘I’ve behaved dreadfully badly,’ she went on in a whisper, ‘but I wanted to sleep with him one more time tonight, just so he could see how I’d improved — like the RSO — ’ tears were streaming down her blanched cheeks — ‘and I was so cross with you and Viking for forcing me to go on.’
‘I’m sorry,’ George shook his head, ‘but you were funtastic, ubsolutely woonderful. You saved the orchestra. None of us will ever be able to thank you enoof.’
‘I was lucky. Rannaldini was on my side for most of the evening. Anyway I thought you getting him in to conduct was all part of your plot to oust Abby, and infiltrate Rannaldini into the RSO.’
‘Happen it was,’ George looked faintly sheepish, ‘but not any more. Working with him at close range, I’ve realized what a shit he is.’
‘Bed wasn’t any good tonight.’ Dolefully Flora wiped her nose on the sleeve of George’s dressing-gown. ‘Now I feel empty, I’ve wanted him back for so long. But when he made love to me, I just felt dirty. We were in his tower.’
George touched the bruise on her cheek.
‘He do this.’
Flora nodded. ‘Because I didn’t want to make a night of it. But the scratches on my legs, those are brambles. I ran out on him through the wood, when I reached the road I hitched a lift.’
‘Christ, in that dress.’
‘I know it was crazy, I just felt if I got to you I’d be safe.’
A pale grey triangle between the curtains showed dawn was breaking, so George put her and Trevor to bed in a spare room with a hot-water bottle and a night-light.
Looking up at his tired turned-down eyes and squashed face, Flora decided he was more like a mastiff than a Rottweiler.
‘Why don’t you wear your glasses any more?’
‘They were only plain glass to intimidate people.’
Flora laughed drowsily. ‘Sorry, I screwed up your evening. I misjudged you — you’re a sweet guy.’
Closing the biggest deal had never given George such a lurch of happiness. He left her to fall asleep counting glow stars, but when he went in with a cup of tea at nine-thirty, she had fled again. The net curtains were flapping in the open window like a Dracula film. Perhaps Rannaldini had spirited her away. George was shocked at the wave of desolation that overwhelmed him.
FIFTY-FIVE
Flora didn’t become a star overnight, because she didn’t want to. She had seen what stardom had done to her parents’ marriage. Instead she told the journalists who clamoured for a story that she preferred to build her singing career slowly and stay with her friends in the orchestra.
‘What orchestra?’ snarled Dixie brandishing the Telegraph Appointment page. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re still in business at Christmas.’
The Arts Council, meanwhile, with predictable pusillanimity, had set up an independent review body to study the two orchestras. The Rutshire Butcher had not helped by giving The Creation a rave review, saying it showed what a lazy, lacklustre orchestra could do under a great conductor.
‘The sooner the CCO and the RSO are closed down and merged into a Super Orchestra,’ he had added, ‘presided over by Rannaldini the better.’
The review was picked up by all the nationals.
Rodney was outraged and weighed in from Lucerne in a letter to The Times. Independent review bodies, he wrote, consisted of a lot of old tabby cats and failed politicians guzzling digestive biscuits and exhausting entire rain forests, to produce reports that no-one read, for a sum of money that would keep both orchestras going for the next ten years. The Arts Council, he went on, ought to have their legs and hands tied together and be merged with the biggest tidal wave in history.
A fuming Miles rang Rodney and bollocked him for muddying the waters. Gilbert and Gwynneth had to be kept sweet.
‘Nothing could keep those guzzling pigs sweet except bombe surprise,’ replied Rodney sharply. ‘And don’t you speak to me like that, you little twerp, I’m nearly eighty and I can do exactly what I like.’
Feelings therefore ran high at the annual cricket match between the two orchestras, which this year was held at Cotchester. Everyone remembered why Rodney had employed Bill Thackery in the first place when he made an opening partnership of one hundred and fifty with Davie Buckle. The RSO were all out for two hundred and twenty-five and, justifiably certain of victory, got stuck into the beer in the tea-interval, only pausing to cross themselves as a shadow moved over a watery sun and Rannaldini’s helicopter landed on the pitch. To everyone’s horror Gwynneth and Gilbert were with him. As Gwynneth jumped down, the wind from the helicopter blades blew her natural-dyed skirt above her head to reveal hairy legs and a hugh black bush.
‘As though John Drommond had hitched a lift,’ said Viking.
Gwynneth promptly charged up to Miles and Hilary.
‘Just had luncheon in Paradise. Sir Roberto was so caring and remembered my weakness for caviar and bombe surprise. He picked us up in the heli, but I said he’d have to let Gilbert and I come home with you on the coach, because we want to sing madrigals.’
‘How wonderful,’ Hilary clapped her hands.
‘I sang “The Silver Swan” to Sir Roberto on the way here, he says my voice is remarkable,’ said Gwynneth complacently.
Rannaldini had had to do a lot of leg work with Gwynneth to make up for disappearing with Flora after The Creation, but had now completely won her over.
RSO spirits rose even higher when Hugo, very pleased with himself after a dazzling Lark Ascending at the proms was bowled for a duck, followed by the rest of the CCO losing eight wickets for one hundred and ten.
‘That’ll teach you to programme vegetarian crap,’ sneered Barry the Bass rubbing the ball on his long hard thigh, as Dame Edith strode in swinging her bat like Botham. Having captained Cheltenham Ladies before the war, she proceeded to play like Botham, making a hundred and twenty and breaking two Cotchester Town Hall windows.
‘Good thing those weren’t H.P. Hall windows,’ barracked the CCO from the pavilion. ‘You couldn’t afford to get them mended.’
Rannaldini who’d been pressing the flesh of local councillors then presented the cup to a puce and dripping Dame Edith, but left kissing her on both cheeks to a very uptight Lady Rannaldini.
Feelings ran so high, that after the shortest après-match drinks in the history of the fixture, a punch-up broke out in which Hugo’s eye was blacked and Viking lost his front tooth again, which had most of the RSO on their knees in the dusk looking for it. Miles was relieved to get Gilbert, Gwynneth and Hilary safely onto the Pond Life coach, leaving poor harassed Knickers to get the others and Viking’s tooth into Moulin Rouge before further mishap occurred. Or so he thought.
Five miles from Rutminster, as the madrigal group were soulfully carolling, suddenly Moulin Rouge overtook Pond Life, and ‘The Silver Swan’ died on Gwynneth’s lips as the entire Celtic Mafia, plus Cherub, Davie and Barry the Bass, flashed by doing a moonie.
‘What the fuck were you playing at?’ roared George, when he summoned Viking, Dixie and Barry as section and ring leaders into his office next day.
‘Giving Gwynneth a bum surprise,’ said Viking.
For a second George fought laughter, then he shouted: ‘It’s not funny, have you guys got some kind of death wish? I am trying to save this orchestra.’
‘Are you?’ snapped Viking who had not forgotten Orchestra South.
‘I bloody well am,’ snapped back George, who had just paid Mary-the-Mother-of-Justin’s telephone bill. ‘Even your pretty face isn’t enough to pull in the punters these days. An audience of twenty-eight in Stroud last week is not going to get us out of the wood.’
The one cheery note was that as a result of The Creation there was just enough money to go on tour. The hotels, the chartered flights, the coaches and train fares had all been paid for in advance.
Enough money had been set aside for the pianist in Rachmaninov’s Paganini Rhapsody, and the four soloists in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, when the soprano pulled out with shingles. Flora was consequently persuaded by Miles and Julian to take her place, which would save the orchestra a further ten thousand. The highlight of the tour, however, was still Rodney’s birthday concert. Knowing she would feel upstaged by his return, Rodney had telephoned Abby.
‘The birthday treat that would make me most happy, darling, would be our double come-back, and for you to play one of the Mozart concertos.’
To his amazement Abby had agreed. She’d have to take the plunge some time, and she couldn’t bear Flora to be the only one saving the orchestra money. She was annoyed that even when she promised to provide pianos in every city Marcus had refused to accompany her to Spain.
‘All anyone can think about around here is money,’ said Abby crossly.
But at least all the horrors of bills, repossessions, overdrafts and looming redundancy were forgotten as the tour approached.
Eighty-six musicians make up a sexually volatile mix. Tours abroad were regarded as bonking bonanzas. Davie Buckle, for example, was terrified by and totally faithful to his hefty wife Brünnhilde at home, but went berse
rk on tour. Players started stepping round each other, setting up liaisons weeks before. Dimitri brushed his wild hair for the first time in years in the hope of advancing beyond tea and cakes with Miss Parrott. Dirty Harry, an ancient bass player who never washed, was actually seen cleaning his teeth in the Gents. Even stingy Carmine bought a round in the pub.
Among the women, there was much highlighting of hair, bad temper over crash diets and waxing of legs. Despite Miles’s strictures that no-one might bring more than twenty kilos of luggage, everyone spent money they hadn’t got on new clothes.
It would be warm in Spain, announced Miles, shorts and a cardigan for the evening. Aware that she would be the prettiest girl on tour, Juno saw no point in buying anything but a chastity belt. She wished George were coming to protect her from lecherous Latins, but the poor darling was working too hard to get away.
Hilary had bought a copy of Don Quixote and several guidebooks, but felt mantillas would be cheaper when she got out there; she and Miles were looking forward to praying in several cathedrals.
On a management level, parsimony wrestled with morality. To save money, Miles wanted as many musicians to share rooms as possible, but he wanted blokes to share with blokes. Everyone refused to share with Dirty Harry or El Creepo.
There was consequently an unofficial list and an official one. Randy officially shared with Dixie, Candy with Clare. Once on tour, Candy would move in with Randy, Clare with Dixie. Everyone intended to play musical beds. Nellie had philanthropically promised herself to a different brass player each night, except for Blue and Lincoln, Viking’s Fifth Horn, a handsome willowy youth, who was in love with Little Jenny. Cherub was dying to make a pass at Noriko and had bought some black silk pyjamas which Miss Parrott had turned up for him.
The main push of the tour, however, was who was going to finally bed Abby. All interested parties had chipped in fifty pounds, the winner getting two thousand. Proof of the bonking had to be a picture of the winner and Abby in bed.
